“A good coxswain is a blessing, Payne.”
“True, sir. I expect he is not blessing his toes just now, sir.”
“No. Not quite, Payne!”
Another lieutenant appeared half an hour later, off the next train.
“Wilshere, sir. Officer-in-charge of the hangars, sir.”
“Very good, Mr Wilshere. I did hear a rumour that you were due in on Friday, in fact.”
Wilshere smiled – he had a ready smile, Peter noticed, his sole distinguishing feature other than an expensive uniform. He was otherwise an unnoticeable young man – neither handsome nor plain, short nor tall, fat nor thin, mid-brown hair and pale blue eyes. Ordinary, in fact, but with money; he sported solid gold cufflinks and tiepin and a massive and shiny wristwatch.
“Ah yes, sir. Friday. Not a lot of sense getting in on a Friday – can’t do much before the weekend. Add to that, not an operational field till Tuesday, so no great need for my services. Saw a couple of shows instead and kept my young lady happy and came down when it seemed right, sir.”
Peter did not like the implication of a mistress – not an uncommon perquisite for a naval officer yet definitely not to be boasted about.
“I am not the CO, as you will know. You are not under my direct command, Mr Crawley. I will leave it up to him how he chooses to deal with you. For the moment, you will wish to inspect your hangars and have a report on their readiness to present to the CO when he arrives. He is due at eleven thirty, I am told.”
“Oh. I expect I had better scoot, sir.”
Crawley left at speed, running towards the hangars. He had time to make acquaintance with his juniors and ask them what was needed to bring them up to efficiency. If he was very good, he would be able to put up a front before the CO and might get away with his dereliction of duty.
The rain grew heavier, encouraging Peter to stay in his office.
The Crossley came in, canvas hoods up and depositing a commander and his servant more or less dry at the offices.
Peter stepped out to the veranda that ran across the front and gave his official welcome to his senior.
“Good morning, sir. Naseby, sir, in charge of flying.”
“’Morning, Naseby! Let’s get in out of this bloody rain. Troughton. Been in the RNAS since its formation.”
“I have a week in, myself, sir. I had occasion to leave Calliope in Pompey after a minor mishap with the Admiral Commanding.”
Troughton bellowed with laughter.
“Nicely put, Naseby! He didn’t drown so it can’t have been serious – quite right! And none of your fault, I know, having seen the full set of reports, including the Admiral’s statement that he was in a rush and took an ill-judged risk. Some question of reinstating you in Calliope, if you wish?”
Peter had no hesitation in turning down the offer.
“No thank you, sir. I have flown my SS9 on two full patrols so far and want to do a lot more. The RNAS will do me, sir, as a permanence.”
“Thought it might. Talked with Fitzjames on the telephone yesterday. He said you were the right sort for us. Welcome aboard.”
Troughton’s servant took his baggage across to the wardroom and they went into the OIC’s office for a first briefing.
“No senior gunnery man to the magazine yet, sir. Officer in charge of the hangars, Wilshere, turned up an hour ago. Due in on Friday and fancied a weekend in Town first.”
“Did he now! Right of you to leave him to me rather than discipline him yourself, being as I was to come here within the hour. What’s your opinion of him?”
“Society darling, sir, very much the little rich boy. That don’t mean he can’t be a good officer, no way! I wonder just how much he knows about engines and rigging a balloon.”
Troughton picked up on the unsaid condemnation.
“You didn’t like him.”
“No. Add to that, sir… My parents are Society themselves – the Nasebys are old in banking, been accepted for half a century and more. I have not been too much in Mayfair myself, being naval, but I have never come across a family of Wilsheres.”
“Good point. I don’t hang about those circles – County, that’s us, down in Devon. I don’t much like those who claim to be something they are not, Naseby. I shall speak to the young gentleman, get my impression of him. I suspect he may be back in London very rapidly.”
Peter thought that to be likely.
“Senior steward, sir, is not a happy mortal just now. He came to me with demands for high wardroom fees and Dining In and Guest Nights every week. Most of our lads are wartime intake and living off their pay, sir. I sent him off with a flea in his ear. Told him I wanted a wardroom that produced hot food for men coming in off long patrols. Anything else was superfluous. He didn’t like it.”
“When the war is over, he can have whatever he wants. Until then, he fits in with our needs.”
“Thank you, sir. How do you want the field run, sir?”
They talked for half an hour before wandering across for lunch. In that time they agreed that Peter’s remit would be to organise the patrols and the fliers and nothing else. All administration would be done by others.
“What of deciding on patrol areas, sir?”
“I will lay down where we are to patrol each day. You decide who does which and how you are to be bombed up. I can’t make my mind up whether it’s better to have a single big bomb or the eight of sixteen pounders. Work it out for yourself. Send me a written report in a few weeks. The station exists to get you and your pilots in the air. Everything comes secondary to that need.”
It placed a burden of demand on Peter. He welcomed it; that was the function of a naval officer – to take orders and turn them into a reality. In this case, clearing their part of the Channel of submarines was his sole responsibility.
“Training tomorrow, sir. Take off and landings for the pilots, using SS9. Up, make a circuit and a wireless report and then come in. An hour or two and then the next man.”
“Four subs as pilots. You will be twelve hours at it, Naseby.”
“Then I shall sleep well, sir. I’ll organise a chair to sit behind the pilot’s cockpit. A wooden kitchen chair, with arms and a belt!”
“Well and good, Naseby. This fish is good – looks as if the cooks have no grudge against you, at least. Who is to be President of the Wardroom?”
“Wilshere is senior at the moment. If the Gunnery Officer has seniority, I will be happier.”
“I need to get on the telephone at soonest, Naseby. Don’t know why he ain’t here yet.”
“No Gunnery Officer, Naseby. He was posted and chose to ride down from Chatham on his motorcycle. An American thing, a Harley-Davidson that could reach sixty miles an hour, of all crazy speeds! Lost the road not so far from Ashford in Kent. Loose gravel. Killed him. Yesterday afternoon. He might have stopped at a pub for lunch. There will be another man as soon as they can locate one. For the while, what’s the youngster like?”
“Sargent? I cannot speak for his professional competence. He seems like a good sort. Very young. I don’t know that I would want him working on fuses for the bombs without an older head looking over his shoulder.”
“I shall get on the telephone immediately. If needs must, we can get an instructor petty officer from Whale Island to do the technical work, keep Sargent in command temporarily.”
It was better that the officer should be at least the technical equal of his underlings, could lead to awkward arguments otherwise.
“I will speak to Wilshere next, Naseby. I will want you in the office to witness all that is said.”
Wilshere had much to say, little of it relevant and a lot that was damaging to his future. He hinted at friends in high places and was very open about his father having money, much of which came to his son’s pockets.